


2 Samuel 19:2

by crookedspoon



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Aging, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Community: parallelsfic, Empress of the Night arc, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Wakes & Funerals, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A eulogy for the departed and an encomium for the bereaved.</p><div class="quote">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i>"Do you think she blames me?"</i>
  </p>
  <p>    <i>Abel cocks his head, surprised. That's not a question he would have suspected Seth to ask. He looks like an owl with half its feathers plucked. "Why would she?"</i></p>
  <p>    <i>"It was he or I. And her choice."</i><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	2 Samuel 19:2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChokolatteJedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChokolatteJedi/gifts).



> Takes place at the end of the Empress of the Night arc.
> 
> Dear ChocolatteJedi, thank you so much for prompting this. I don't think I'd ever have written anything for Trinity Blood if not for your request. You said you were very open in what you'd like to receive, so I still hope you can enjoy this in some way.
> 
> Also written for Aug 15th, "Even if I win, I lose." @ 31_days (LJ).

_I would give_  
 _All that I am, to be as thou now art:—_  
 _But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart._  


—Percy Bysshe Shelley, _Adonaïs_  


Funerals are no boisterous festivities.

She knows this; and yet, this one strikes her as unusually sombre. Certainly, silence reigned during the procession and ceremony, but even now, at the banquet, their voices haven't risen above a murmur, uncertain and subdued.

The _boyar_ do not know what to say.

Wakes are held for the family and friends, those remaining alive, to converse and remember the dead, to overcome their grief together. But, does Sulayman have any friends left? His family has fled the Empire – to avoid shame or persecution, or both. And now, nobody dares to utter a word of praise. His betrayal is still too present in their minds, the memories too distinct, and they seem to have blotted out all his hard work for the Empire in favour for that against it.

Perhaps they fear compliments could be viewed as treason – as though sympathizing with him was the same as sympathizing with the hardliners. Don't they know that she can't but view him as one of her children still, despite of everything?

Off to the side of the altar, the young Marquise of Kiev gazes through the arrangements of magnolias and chrysanthemums and single yellow roses. Even she is silent. The crystal goblet of Aqua Vitae she's holding is only for show; she hasn't nipped at it once. Seth wonders whether she can't bring herself to, after what she did.

Embracing life is difficult when mourning for loved ones.

Astharoshe's unoccupied hand touches her Adam's apple, as though tracing the tendrils of grief tightening her throat. Her face is strained, her eyes pinched. She cannot take chances: as a noble, it is considered weak to let your tears be seen. Seth feels her own grief burning like a band of nettles, a noose restricting her breath. Not one sob could escape even if she let it.

"Isn't it strange, nii-san?" she addresses her brother, who is standing beside her, holding a plate piled high with grapes and honey-cakes and _sphoungata_. Always a big eater.

"Hm?" he asks, waving the dry _anthotyros_ impaled on his fork in her direction. The nobles eye him suspiciously. Terran from the Outer are not usually allowed on the Island of Beloved Children. Worse yet, he's not only from the Outer, but in service of the Vatican. He may have earned the privilege of attending the funeral for helping the Empire, but that still gives him no right to be this gluttonous. And in front of the Empress, too. She can almost feel their seething disgust as a warm glow on her skin. They must think him something special for getting away with it.

"The depth of human emotion, I mean? Is it because their lives are so short? How do you stand it among the Terran, whose lives are just a fraction of a Methuselah's?"

Abel swallows the bite he was chewing, before answering. His wide, innocent eyes and the cheese crumbs clinging to his cheek belied his seriousness. "I don't think of life in terms of long or short."

"How then?"

"Each life is precious, no matter its length, and as such, it needs to be treasured. If a person were to die to tomorrow, I would still protect her today. It is that easy."

An undignified snort escapes Seth. "When have you become such a hopeless romantic? Has it something to do with your current occupation? Seriously, never in my wildest dreams would I have been able to picture you as a priest."

"Really?" He looks down at his clothes, although he's not wearing his cassock, but rather a citizen's black uniform. "I guess we all change with the times, don't we?"

"In our own way, perhaps." She fingers the lace falls below her jade green cuffs. "Augusta, however, cannot afford to change much."

"Augusta? Who's that?" Abel asks around the fork in his mouth.

"My ego as Empress. Don't you ever pay attention, dear brother?"

"Oh, you're called Augusta, then?" he laughs and rubs the back of his head, nearly dropping the cutlery in the process. "Good thing you told me. I might have called you Seth by accident."

She pins him with a flat stare he cannot see. His frivolous act makes her suspicious, because it's so unlike him. As though he's hiding something more than just his feelings. "Do you really have to be that way around me?"

He blinks at her. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

He sighs with his whole body and his shoulders sag. "I'm trying to lighten up the mood, you see? Everyone here is acting so gloomy. It's stifling."

"Well," Seth spreads her hands and shrugs, "you can't expect them to dance a jig at a funeral."

"As far as they're concerned, a threat to the Empire has been eliminated, right?"

"That may be true, but still, Sulayman has been loyal to me for the longest time. We are all still in shock. All of us." She trails off. It's still not easy, dressing the past days in words. Betrayal always takes her back to the time of Armageddon, when turbulence ruled their lives and the smallest decision had fatal consequences.

Abel sets his plate back on the table. "This affects you," he says simply and rubs his hands together to brush off errand crumbs.

"Of course it does. I am no monster." She wishes he could see the steel in her eyes, daring him to contradict her. They are alike: they share the same genetic code and harbour the same destructive potential. If he thinks of himself as a monster for that, he must think her one, too. But she won't let him.

"Do you think this is your fault?" Abel asks.

"As Empress, is not what happens in the Empire partly my responsibility? I think I made a mistake in trusting him too much." Or, letting him trust her too much. Allowing him too close. She thought she could make use of his adoration for her. Not so. She should have known it would be too dangerous, should have known they would both be burnt. Her hands appear unblemished, because the stains run deeper. "Do you think I am to blame?"

He remains silent, as if debating the question. Her eyes follow his line of vision to the young marquise. His gaze has often traveled in her direction tonight; he must have grown fond of her. She of him, too. Her change after their first mission together has been significant: a sudden thirst to know more about the Outer has welled up in her and brought her the name "Terran lover."

"Do you think she blames me?" she repeats.

Abel cocks his head, surprised. That's not a question he would have suspected her to ask. He looks like an owl with half of its feathers plucked. "Why would she?"

"It was he or I. And her choice."

"I don't see how she could blame you for that. It was not your fault.".

"What if it was? What if she regrets it?"

"Come now," he says mechanically. His eyes are already glazing over. He cannot find words to justify the death of anyone, even if it saved his own sister, the one who shares his DNA. "Do you really think she would regret saving you, and saving the Empire?"

"No, not that." Seth shakes her head and the veil sways in front of her. "But regret killing a loved one."

Abel's expression hardens. His voice is rough, when he suggests, "Why don't you ask her? See what she has to say."

Seth can't understand love, but thinks Abel can. Or has once felt something akin to it. So long ago. It's strange to think that she hasn't seen her brother in centuries and that although he has changed, his core remains the same. She can still guess his thoughts.

***

Her heart is heavy and gray, a boulder as big as the Empire, when she steps up to the young marquise. Already she has taken on her alter ego, like an extra veil. Carefree Seth can't face this grieving woman. Although even Seth can't keep up her cheer today.

"How are you faring?" Augusta asks.

"Your Majesty!" Astharoshe starts, she has been too occupied by her own thoughts. Her face colours. Methuselah take great pride in their heightened senses – overlooking Augusta's approach shames her. She places her goblet on a tray beside her and bows stiffly. "Please, there is no need for you to concern yourself with me."

"Nonsense, child. You have taken great personal loss through your service to the Empire. This cannot be brushed aside for the sake of modesty. Sulayman... he was a very important person to you too, wasn't he?"

Upon hearing his name, Astharoshe's hue deepens and her eyes drift to the dais. "I used to look up to him and admire him for his strength and selflessness. He was... a kind man and a true inspiration to us all. Until now, of course." She lowers her eyes as though his ignominy were her own.

"Speak no more of it. Today we want to remember his goods deeds and what a friend he has been to us. Whatever his reasons for betrayal, they have been forgiven upon his death." Augusta speaks this with a neutral air; no one needs to guess her inner turmoil. But, like this, it also sounds false, like a set phrase, something rehearsed and not meant.

Astharoshe's eyes widen a fraction. Did she notice? "That is very gracious of you to say, your Majesty. But, if I may be allowed this question, have you honestly not suspected him?"

Augusta pauses for a moment. Her face may be obscured by her veil – her eyes dry behind it – but she cannot weep, although she wants to: she owes him that much. 

"Indeed I have not. Even I have been blinded by our mutual past and my own expectations of him. I was certain that nigh three hundred years sufficed to know a person. I could not have imagined him of all people as member – let alone leader – of the hardliner faction." Admitting her own shortcomings is difficult, but Augusta hopes to allay her child's mind somewhat. If even the all-knowing Empress did not foresee this, surely a mere fledgling could not have hoped to. "This, however, is as matters stand and we cannot deny them. Let them be a lesson to us."

"You don't blame him," Astharoshe breathes, more of a realization than an actual question.

"Do you blame me?"

"I don't understand," Astharoshe says, somewhat taken aback. "I am in no position to judge you, your Majesty."

"Do you blame his death on me?" she asks again, pressing for an answer.

"But, I was the one who killed him."

"By defending my life. Don't you think that if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have had to kill him?"

Astharoshe's mouth opens, as if to let out her indignation, but she reins herself in. "That thought never crossed my mind," Astharoshe finally says, voice straining with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. "Certainly, I had wished for a more peaceful outcome, but in that moment, I acted on instinct. Having lost you once was hard enough to bear, but actually seeing it happen this time, knowing it for truth—" She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. "The Empire would crumble without you."

"Sulayman would not have allowed that to happen. He acted in what he thought was the best interest for the Empire. His vision, however, included a future without me."

"He was wrong, your Majesty! It pains me to say it, but he was wrong. Where would we be without our Great Mother? Who could give us this constant guidance that you have given us for centuries? Our lives are but a moment compared to yours, so how could any of us presume to compete with your wisdom?"

Augusta stills. "Those are your honest thoughts?" she asks although she knows the answer.

"Those are my honest thoughts." Her amber eyes glow with conviction. Through them, Augusta sees the truth in her words.

"I am not questioning you, child. On the contrary, I thank you for your words." And in that moment, something hard melts inside of her, something heavy and gray that has been weighing her down for some time. Her doubts. It's such a relief to know that her people still think her existence necessary.

This Empire has become her life, her everything. Without it, she doesn't know much else anymore. And if her children scorned her and sought a life away from her shadow... why, what purpose would she have left? She can't travel the world like Abel, and mediate peace talks between two opposing factions that have hated each other for centuries. She doesn't see a future for them together side-by-side, but Abel believes in it – it is what drives him. She, however, only has that drive for the Empire, the home she has made for herself and all Methuselah.

For that reason, she could relate to Sulayman's wish to dethrone and replace her. He wanted what he thought was best for the Methuselah as a whole, even if he had to sacrifice his own integrity and his feelings for her. She commended his strength of will and his forcefulness; she would gladly have left him the Jade Throne if he could have been trusted to know what he was doing. She would have left it, but not without defending it to her death.

A life without the Empire is no life anymore.

At that exact moment, a porcelain crash pulls her out of the quagmire of contemplation. She turns to see Abel standing above an array of food and ceramic fragments, apologising profusely to the servants and cutting himself when he tries to pick up the pieces.

"Your Majesty," Astharoshe interposes, "may I be excused for a moment?" Her glare fixes Abel, promising nothing too gentle. "There is someone who needs to be taught some respect," she growls, before stalking off in his direction.

It is Seth, not Augusta, who smiles then, fond and genuine. For the first time in a while, she steps away from her grief and self-doubts. It's strange to think that she hasn't seen her brother in centuries and that although she has changed, her core remains the same. After all, he can still protect her from herself.

**Author's Note:**

>  _sphoungata_ \- a kind of omelette  
>  _anthotyros_ \- a type of cheese
> 
> If I've missed anything, ask away.
> 
> As always, feedback is adored. I'd love to know what you think. :)


End file.
